Date: Thu, 30 Aug 2007 22:10:18 -0400
From: Tinnean <tinneantoo@embarqmail.com>
Subject: Mann of My Dreams 3: Peel Me a Grape

Note: This story starts a week or so prior to the events in Best Laid
Plans. At that time, computers still came with floppy drives. Thanks to Tim
Mead for looking this over, and as always, to Gail for the beta.

Peel Me a Grape
Part 1/1

The whole fucking problem was Quinton Mann's fault. Quinton Mann, Deputy
Director of Operational Targeting for the C fucking I fucking A.

He was so goddammed different from the usual run of spooks that in spite of
everything, I found myself wanting to know stuff about him. Purely because
it paid to know what was up with the opposing team. I'd actually gone to
his mother's house in Great Falls and 'interviewed' her for the Exeter
alumnus newsletter as Skip ? jesus, there was a preppy nickname for you! ?
Patterson, an old friend of her son's. It was a good thing that picture she
compared me with was just a head shot and didn't give any indication of
height. The real Patterson was about four inches shorter than I was, closer
to Mann's 5'10".

I'd learned some really interesting things about Mann. He rode. He
fenced. He would have been on the dressage team representing the US in the
1980 Summer Olympics if we hadn't pulled out, and was in the Pentathlon
event in '88. There was that period after he'd graduated from Harvard,
before he went for his Masters, when he had taken a year off from his
studies. Mrs. Mann told me he had gone backpacking throughout Europe and
Asia. What he was actually doing was some undercover work for his uncles,
who worked in the NSA and CIA respectively.

Mann was good, I had to give him that. I'd known he was hurting in that
warehouse simply because getting shot always hurt like a son of a bitch,
but he'd concealed it and held onto the briefcase that contained Bruckner's
formula for the self-renewing cyclotronic energy source. I thought I'd have
to kill him to get it, and then who should show up but Major Johnny Drum,
causing Mann to lose his concentration long enough that I was able to
relieve him of the briefcase and make a run for it. I always knew the man
had some uses.

And of course, Drum came hot-footing after me. For some reason, he thought
it was my one goal in life to make his life miserable, and how egotistical
was that?

Of course, that didn't mean I wouldn't fuck with his mind when I had the
opportunity.

I had a backup plan in case something like this happened; well, I always
did; a senior special agent could never be too careful. Under my
windbreaker I wore a Kevlar vest, and hidden out on the pier that butted
the side of the warehouse that faced the Bay was a spare briefcase. Inside
it was the most complicated, convoluted formula of numbers, letters,
ideographs, and glyphs, similar enough to what Bruckner had come up with
that it would fool the casual observer into thinking it was real, and off
just enough so that it was useless. What I'd planned to do was distract
Bruckner enough to switch cases, but he'd been late, and I hadn't had the
opportunity at that point.

At that point?

Damn, I wished I could have seen Drum's face when he'd learned his riding
in like the fucking cavalry to the rescue had been for nothing.

Setting aside the pleasant vision of Drum getting a dressing down for not
only discharging his firearm unnecessarily, but for returning to the
Pentagon with a crap formula, I resumed uploading the last of that new
information on Mann into my personal file. I was just finishing when my
intercom buzzed.

"Yes, Ms. Parker?" She was my secretary when I worked in the building that
housed the Washington Bureau of Intelligence and Security, and that had
recently become more frequent than I liked. If I hadn't buried my birth
date so well, I'd worry that someone had caught wise and I was on the fast
track to being made redundant.

"Mr. Davies would like to see you, Mr. Vincent. Immediately."

The head of the WBIS' PR department? "Did he say why?"

"No, sir."

Shit. "Okay. Thanks."

I saved the information and closed the program, then popped the floppy out
of the drive and slid it into a concealed space inside the center drawer of
my desk. It wouldn't do to have it on my person, and I didn't have time to
reformat the disk, wiping it clean, but it would be safe enough there. No
one got past my secretary and entered my office uninvited.

As for the file itself, it was buried behind so many firewalls, it would
take an extremely skilled, extremely dedicated, and extremely unethical
hacker a solid month's uninterrupted work to get at it, and then, once it
was accessed, there was an additional failsafe that would fry the hard
drive and cause the entire power grid on the Eastern seaboard to melt down.

I turned off my computer, rolled down my sleeves, and put on my suit
jacket.

Ms. Parker sat at her computer. A petite brunette with a body that wouldn't
quit and big baby blues, I wouldn't have made a play for her even if I
hadn't been going through a dry spell; it was a long-time policy of mine
not to shit where I ate.

She glanced up, and there were shadows under those soulful eyes. That fuck
she was dating must have kept her up late.

"Why don't you go to lunch?"

"Thank you, Mr. Vincent. I think I will." She saved her work and shut down
her computer. In most companies, it would have been enough just to log out
of the application and go, but the WBIS wasn't most companies.

Some of the other alphabet agencies called us paranoid, but the fact
remained that no sensitive information had ever been obtained from one of
our computers.

I locked my office door, exited the outer office, and made my way to the
stairwell at the far end of the corridor; I preferred the stairs, finding
them safer than the elevator. Plus it was good exercise.

The Public Relations Department of the WBIS was on the 10th floor. I
trotted up the three flights, trying to puzzle out why Davies wanted to see
me. He might be a one of the more senior directors, but I answered to no
one but Trevor Wallace, known throughout the WBIS as The Boss, and yeah,
that was in caps, and went where he sent me.

Davies' personal assistant gave me a bored look. "Yes?" He had dark blond
hair and gray eyes, which observed me from behind pale, rose-tinted,
wire-framed glasses. The nameplate on his desk read Alexander Bancroft.

"Davies wants to see me."

He frowned at the lack of honorific. "*Mr.* Davies is on the phone right
now. If you'll take a seat? "

"No." The only man I waited for was The Boss. "I was told he wanted to see
me now. If it was so fucking unimportant, he should have said so." I turned
on my heel and started to walk out. "Tell him to call me. I'm
Vincent. Maybe I'll have some free time."

He gasped, and a glance over my shoulder showed me he had turned
pale. "Just one moment, please! I'm sure he'll? I'll? " He almost sprained
a finger keying the intercom. "Mr. Davies, I have Vincent here for you." I
couldn't hear what Davies said, but his assistant looked very unhappy. "I
know but? He's *leaving*, Mr. Davies!" he hissed into the receiver.

I waited, interested enough to see how this was going to play out.

"Yes, sir." Bancroft hung up, gave me a smile that didn't reach his eyes,
and nodded toward the inner door. "Mr. Davies will see you now."

****

It was a bullshit meeting. I was a senior special agent who'd been running
my own operations for the last decade and a half, and Davies had the
temerity to treat me like a greenhorn who'd just been recruited.

After about twenty minutes, as I sat there growing more and more irritated,
I realized just how much of a bullshit meeting it was.

I pushed back my chair and rose to my feet. "Y'know something, Davies?" He
frowned; he hated like hell that I didn't call him 'Mr.', but The Boss was
the only one I accorded that measure of respect. "If I do my job right, PR
has nothing to complain about; nobody in the WBIS has. I've been doing my
job right. Now get off my back, or I'll start getting pissed. You really
won't like it when I'm pissed."

"Who do you think you are? David Banner?" Apparently he was more familiar
with the TV show than the comic book.

"The Hulk was a fictional character. I'm for real. You *don't* want to fuck
with me." I grinned at him, pleased when his face took on a purple hue ?
was he about to blow a blood vessel, I hoped?

No such luck. I shrugged and walked out.

Behind his desk, Davies' assistant jerked back and dropped something, and I
grinned at him too. "Want to give me that tape?" I wasn't surprised that
Davies would have our meeting bugged. I'd done the same thing, with the
little device I had in my pocket.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" Bancroft blustered.

"Sure you don't." I held my hand out, giving him a flat look. He swallowed,
fumbled with the tape recorder, and dropped the tiny cassette in my hand. I
stripped the tape out of its casing, said unctuously, "Thank you for your
cooperation," and left.

First I'd see about disposing of it, then I'd stop in the cafeteria to get
some lunch, which I'd eat at my desk. That was what I usually did when I
was working out of Headquarters, since for some reason, the cafeteria
tended to empty out when I ate there, so I made it a point not to eat there
often.

I arrived back at my office with a pastrami sandwich ? on rye, lots of fat
and mustard and a juicy pickle, phallic in appearance, on the side ? to
find Ms. Parker was still out to lunch. I hadn't seen her in the cafeteria,
but?

Abruptly I went on full alert as the worry hairs on the back of my neck
stood up. The door to my inner office was no longer locked. Someone had
come into my office. I examined the door for a moment. There didn't seem to
be scratch marks on the lock, but I'd study it more thoroughly later. I'd
check for prints at the same time, and the security tapes as well.

First things first. I needed to see what kind of damage had been done.

Using a handkerchief I pulled from my inner pocket, I turned the knob,
pushed the door open, and stood in the doorway, letting my eyes rove over
the room. Everything seemed in place. I approached my desk. Nothing on it
seemed to be disturbed.

I set my sandwich down, sat, and reached for the center drawer. It was
slightly out of sync, not closed snugly, as I'd left it.

When I opened the drawer, the concealed space didn't seem to have been
tampered with, but that didn't prove anything. I removed the disk, inserted
it into my A drive, and clicked on File. The box dropped down, and I stared
at it.

It would have been a slick operation except for this. I *might* have
doubted I'd shut the drawer securely, locked my office door, not that it
was likely, but it had a one in ten billion chance of possibility, but
this?

Whoever had broken into my office had made a copy of this disk. I could
feel the tension in my jaw as I clenched my teeth in irritation, and I
concentrated on relaxing. The information on it was innocuous enough, and
if anyone called me on it? Not that anyone would. I had complete autonomy
and answered only to The Boss.

What had me seriously pissed was the fact that someone in the WBIS was
spying on me. A spook in my own backyard?

Bonfiglio might have done it, but he was a mole and wouldn't have access to
this building. Aside from the fact that he was dead.

Davies calling me from my office had been awfully convenient. I should have
realized something was up.

I'd find out who was involved and deal with them.

Meanwhile, I had something else to do.

I right-clicked on the computer icon and set about reformatting the disk,
wiping it clean of all information.

****

It was the morning after my birthday ? and how the *fuck* had Mann learned
that it was my birthday?

How the fuck had he discovered that it was I and not Skip Patterson who'd
talked to his mother?

And why had he gone down on me?

Those last minutes in the men's room of Raphael's kept slipping past the
barriers in my mind that I kept erecting. What had possessed Mann to get on
his knees and suck me off? And damn, it had been one fucking hot blow job!

Shit. I pushed that image, those remembered sensations from my mind. I had
other things to do, like put together a new file on the men who'd been
involved in the break-in of my office.

I had a strong feeling one of them was Robert Sperling, who was Deputy
Director of Interior Affairs. Although Interior Affairs was located on 7,
his office was up on 10. He didn't like me, but that didn't keep me up
nights. The feeling was mutual. He'd cost me a good team a number of years
back, trying to play James Bond and curry Brownie points with The Boss at
the same time, and succeeding in neither.

Sperling was a shit who should never have been allowed through the doors of
the WBIS, let alone to rise to the position of deputy director of anything
more crucial than shoveling shit.

I had no doubt he'd earned that position on his knees, sucking someone's
cock, although I could never learn whose, or taking it up the ass.

He had a habit of dropping in on his agents unannounced, trying to put the
fear of god ? read Sperling ? in them. He ruined a few of our younger,
newer recruits that way, and after they'd washed out, they'd wound up going
to the CIA.

Of course he tried dropping in on me. Once.

The Boss felt I needed an office for the rare occasions when I'd been in
DC, and one had turned up on 7. Sperling apparently thought that put me
within his jurisdiction.

I'd been using a rubber band to shoot paperclips into a mug set on my
windowsill. I'd long since perfected my aim, and what I was really doing
was mentally working through the scenario of an operation I was about to
run.

Sperling had burst through the door of my corner office, shouting, 'What's
the meaning of this?' or some such bullshit, and I'd altered my aim and got
him between the eyes.

'You? you? *you could have shot my eye out*!' he'd screeched.

'Yeah, yeah, Ralphie. Piss off. I'm busy.'

'Busy? *Busy*?'

"Is there an echo in here?"

He'd gone running up to The Boss, who, according to the secretaries'
grapevine, told him to leave me to do my job.

Sperling was pompous, officious, and ineffectual, but because someone liked
the way he sucked cock, there was no way I could get to him, even after I'd
lost good men to his incompetence.

Not then, at any rate, so I bided my time.

As Choderios de LaClos said, or maybe it was the Klingons, revenge is a
dish best served cold. I was still biding my time, and I knew Sperling knew
that. He was getting jumpy, and jumpy men did stupid things.

I was considering who else might be involved in this when my intercom
buzzed.

"Yes, Ms. Parker?"

"Mr. Vincent, The Boss is on line 1. He called himself!" she informed me in
almost hushed tones.

"Thank you." The Boss never summoned anyone personally. Even a senior agent
such as myself usually was called to his presence by his gorgon of a
secretary. I pressed 1. "Sir?"

"My office. Now."

"Yes, sir!" I hadn't heard that tone in his voice in a very long time. If I
read it correctly, and I was never wrong, someone had pissed off the head
of the WBIS, and I was going to get to teach him manners.

I smoothed my hair, straightened my jacket, and headed to 11 where all the
administrative offices were.

His secretary observed me through her bifocals, then nodded toward the
door.

Mr. Wallace looked up as I entered. "Vincent."

I made sure the door was closed, then walked up to that desk of his that
had seemed the size of a football field the first time I had been called to
his office as a junior agent. I'd been cool and relaxed then. I was cool
and relaxed now. "Mr. Wallace?"

His eyes were flat, and there was an unhappy twist to his lips. I drew in a
deep breath, and let it out soundlessly, and wondered who I was going to be
sent to kill.

The Boss drummed his manicured fingernails on the arm of his chair. "You're
familiar with Robert Lynx?" He named the head of a covert antiterrorist
organization that currently had it headquarters somewhere in Paris.

"I've heard of him, sir." I'd also dealt with a couple of his people. There
wasn't time now to recall fondly the time I'd spent in bed with them, one a
former valentine operative who was now one of the deadliest cold ops on the
planet, second to me, of course, and the other an interrogation specialist
even I would hesitate to cross, even though she was a woman, and one who
didn't come any higher on me than my heart.

"I owe him, Mark."

I swallowed. This was fucking serious. The Boss never called any of his
agents by their first names. Never.

"We were prisoners of war in Viet Nam, and he saved my life. He's calling
in that favor now."

"What can I do for you, Mr. Wallace?"

He handed me a scrap of paper. "Memorize this and destroy it. Robert Lynx
will be at that address for exactly one hour. If you miss that window of
opportunity? "

I looked at him without a change of expression. I wouldn't miss it.

In spite of my poker face, he knew I was annoyed, and the corner of his
mouth twitched in the only sign of amusement he allowed
himself. "Precisely. Oh, and eating this will not be necessary."

"And here I thought I was actually going to get to play James Bond."

"Vincent?"

"Sorry, sir." But I'd got him to grin.

"You didn't ask me why Robert Lynx doesn't have his own people handle
this."

"I assumed he didn't want his organization to be implicated if there were
any repercussions. As an unknown quantity, I would not be traced back to
the Division."

"But you could be traced back to the WBIS?" he asked sharply.

"Of course not, sir. Aren't I the best you've got? Didn't Sabatino diGiradi
have a heart attack on the dance floor at his daughter's wedding?"

The Boss smiled at the seeming non sequitur. "You always do excellent work,
Vincent." He took an airline ticket from his desk drawer. "You'll catch the
7:20 flight this evening out of Dulles. It should get you into Charles De
Gaulle Airport around 8:35 tomorrow morning." He caught the look on my
face. "Would you like me to lean on the French government and see if I can
get the SSTs running again?"

"I'd appreciate it, sir!" I said dryly. Transatlantic flying sucked.

He gave a gentlemanly huff of laughter. "Clear off your desk, Vincent, and
take the rest of the afternoon off. I don't want you missing that flight."

"Yes, sir!" I paused at the door. "Just one thing, Mr. Wallace. How far do
you want me to take this?"

His gaze was contemplative. "It's really Robert Lynx's call. He'll fill you
in on all the details and will let you know how thorough he wants you to
be. Other than that, I trust to your discretion. I've already informed him
that he should also."

"Thank you, sir." I left his office. The gorgon glowered at me, but I
smiled at her, took her hand and raised it to my mouth, and kissed the back
of it. Even I wasn't going to chance kissing her palm.

I was smiling as I walked down the corridor. By tomorrow morning, I would
be in Paris. And once this little job was completed, maybe I'd have a
chance to see Pierre de Becque, the former valentine operative I'd met
there a few years ago.

Pete was an extremely talented lover. Once I was buried in his body, I had
no doubt I'd forget all about Quinton Mann.


****

We were somewhere in Calais, in a warehouse that had been abandoned for
quite some time.

For a moment I thought back to the previous summer, to the warehouse on the
Patapsco River, where Mann had thought to do a meet and buy with a
scientist who'd contracted to work for Huntingdon and had panicked when
he'd realized that to work for that corporation was actually to work for
the WBIS.

I'd told Bonfiglio, the mole we had in the CIA, that I'd deal with it. I
didn't trust him any further than I could throw him. If he'd betray the
Company, the odds were he'd betray the WBIS as well.

And they said *we* were loose cannons.

~~~

Mann was half-sprawled on the dirty floor of the Wyman Bros. Warehouse,
dripping blood and trying to convince me it was just a flesh wound.

I'd heard of him ? who hadn't, considering his family was as close to
royalty as the intelligence community got ? but this was the first time
we'd ever crossed paths. The picture of him in the WBIS files didn't do him
justice, and in spite of myself, I felt a twinge of interest. The brown
hair with a lock falling into his hazel eyes, the determination in those
eyes?

He recognized me, which shouldn't have surprised me, but it did. I mean,
the photo the CIA had obtained of me was pretty shitty. Wasn't even of my
best side.

I was insulted when he said, "I suppose I should thank you for aiming low?"

"If I shoot, Mann, I shoot to kill."

"So you're saying ? "

"I didn't shoot you." Why the fuck was he surprised? We were colleagues, in
a manner of speaking, and as long as he didn't get in my way, I had no
reason to shoot him.

"Then who? "

"Can't imagine." I wasn't going to tell him it was Bonfiglio, and that I'd
deal with the shit later. "I take it you'll survive?"

"Yes, it's just a flesh wound."

Right. Well, there was no point chit-chatting. I reached for the briefcase
that I knew held Bruchner's latest work. "I'll just take this and be on my
way." He wouldn't let it go. "Don't be a dope, Mann. It's not worth dying
for."

"According to whom?" 'To whom.' God, that was class!

And what was I thinking of? "Look. This belongs to Huntingdon." If he
didn't let it go, I'd have no recourse but to shoot him, and I'd do it in a
New York City minute.

"I won't? "

And then that idiot Drum turned up and distracted him long enough for me to
ease the briefcase out of his grip and make a run for it.

I could hear Drum pounding after me ? jesus, he sounded like a herd of
elephants ? and I switched the briefcase with the one I'd brought along in
the event something like this happened. I'd learned early on to be prepared
for any contingency by another of my old lady's men.

And the bastard shot me in the back!

Good thing I was wearing Kevlar.

The shots knocked me face forward, stunning me, and Drum snatched the decoy
case and trotted back into the warehouse.

I needed to be sure I had enough time to make my getaway. I placed the
small incendiary device on the ground, set the timer for fifteen seconds ?
that should give Mann time enough to get out ? and dropped off the pier and
into the murky water of the Chesapeake Bay.

The warehouse exploded while I was still submerged and swimming the fifty
yards it took to reach the spot where the small skiff waited. I spat water,
peeled off my windbreaker and the vest, and grunted as I tested my ribs for
breaks.

"Let's get back to Headquarters," I told Browne, the agent who'd been
assigned to me.

"Yes, sir."

I was pleased when I learned that Mann hadn't even been wounded badly
enough to warrant a hospital stay.

He was a good man, even if he was CIA.

I kept remembering those eyes, and the firm set to his lips, and I started
my file on him.

~~~

The figure slumped in the chair moaned as he began to regain consciousness,
and I was recalled to the present. I removed the protective gloves I had
covering my hands and flexed my fingers.

"The man whose computer program you fucked with doesn't want you dead. You
should be grateful for that."

His eyes managed to convey his disbelief, and I grinned at him and squatted
down before him.

"I know a lot of ways to kill a man, and forty-five of them take a very
long time. If it was my choice, I would have had you begging me to put you
out of your misery long before now." I shoved his head back.

Tears streaked his cheeks, and his breath hitched. His throat must have
been pretty sore from his screams, which had started as soon as I broke his
first finger. I didn't think the others would heal soundly enough for him
to ever use a keyboard again. One or two might even need to be amputated, I
mused.

I stood up and observed him dispassionately. He wouldn't have died well at
all. Now Mann?

Annoyed, I banished the thought.

"You should be able to get yourself loose in a quarter hour, if you
concentrate and breathe through the pain. I wouldn't dawdle, though. The
explosives are set to go off thirty minutes from now."

There was a faint hissing sound as he pissed his pants. Again.

Of course there really weren't any explosives. Robert Lynx wanted the man
left alive. I didn't think it was a smart move, but it was his call.

I walked out, removing the appliances that disguised my face and whistling
a few bars of the 1812 Overture. I was pleased; my job was done, and now I
was going to rendezvous ? hey, when in France ? with someone who had a
skilled mouth and an even more skilled ass.

****

It was still too damp and chilly in Paris to sit at one of the outdoor
tables. I hated the cold, so I waited inside for my friend to show up. If
he was able to get free, he promised to meet me in this place in time for
dinner.

My thoughts were once again on Quinton Mann. I was spending entirely too
much time thinking about him, but I was sure that once I'd had Pierre de
Becque in my bed again, the one-time valentine operative would wipe away
all thoughts of Mann as easily as I'd wiped that disk.

Something hard pressed into my spine, and I stiffened, furious with
myself. I never let my thoughts wander, and now here I had, and the result
was that I'd let someone get the drop on me.

"Ah, cher homme," a soft voice whispered, "if I had wanted to kill you, you
would be very dead now!" Warm lips touched the back of my neck in a brief
caress.

"You think so, Pete?" I could not afford to let anyone, not even him, know
of this?whatever the fuck it was that I had developed for a CIA spook. My
expression revealed nothing but amusement as I turned to face him and saw
him cocking the finger he had dug into my back at me.

"But of course!" He was so French. "Come, mon ami. I know the manager of
this restaurant. He has promised us a good table." Pete led the way and
seated himself opposite me, so that we both had an area of the restaurant
under surveillance.

"How have you been, my friend?" I passed him the menu, which he glanced at
indifferently.

"Well, mon cher Mark. I have been given a young blonde to mentor. She has
fallen in love with me, I think. I know she wants to sleep with me."

"Merde!"

He shrugged, a typically Gallic gesture. "There will be time enough to
worry if she survives her training."

"Your organization is almost as rigorous as mine when it comes to
training." The waiter appeared at my shoulder.

"I know what is good here, Mark. Shall I order for us both?"

I remembered another dinner where someone had ordered for me, and I
frowned, but let Pete choose the meal.

"Vous avez Samuel Adams? Non? Dommage." He turned to me. "Unfortunately? "

"I got it, Pete. No Sam Adams. How about Michelob?"

"Mais oui, m'sieur."

"Bon. Pour deux, s'il vous plait."

"Mark, the least you can do is let me order in my own country."

"Knock yourself out."

He scowled at me. "I will have Soupe a la Oignon Gratinee, and then
bifteck, well, I think. Mon ami?"

This time I shrugged. That was Pete. He liked his eggs runny and his steak
like shoe leather. French onion soup sounded good, but I wanted Pete in bed
more than I wanted the steak. Maybe having the Frenchman under me would
take my mind off Quinton Mann.

Pete arched his eyebrow when I murmured my suggestion to him, although his
mouth curved in a sensuous grin, and my cock twitched with interest. I
breathed a sigh of relief. I wasn't fixated on that hazel-eyed spook! I'd
known all along I wasn't! I grinned back at my friend and licked my
lips. Pete's gray-green eyes grew sultry.

"We will just have the soup for now," he told the waiter.

"Bon." The waiter left to put in our order.

"What did you have in mind, cher homme?" Pete asked in all innocence. He
knew damned well what I had in mind. After we were done with that soup, we
were going to find a hotel, and *he* was going to be the main course.

****

"Tactics? " That was how Robert Lynx was referred to within the
Division. "? is very pleased with you, Mark." Pete was languidly removing
his black shirt. Beneath it, he wore nothing except a medallion I had sent
him as a token of esteem. I was pleased that he wore it, since I wasn't in
the habit of giving gifts to men and hadn't been sure if it was
appropriate. He saw where my eyes were focused, raised a hand to touch the
medallion, and continued. "If you ever decide you are tired of WBIS
regulations, he would be more than happy to see that an opening became
available for you in the Division."

"Thank, Pete. I'm content with where I am."

"Still, if you ever change your mind?"

I left my own shirt half unbuttoned and crossed the room to where he
stood. He was shorter than I, and I had to lean down to fasten my lips to
his. I wouldn't have had to bend so far with Quinton Mann.

*Fuck*! I growled under my breath and took de Becque's mouth more savagely
than I'd intended. But he was no shrinking violet. He enjoyed it when I got
rough. He bit at my lips, the sounds he was making heading right to my
dick.

I backed away a step and tore off my clothes, not caring if I tore off
buttons and ripped buttonholes. It was very reminiscent of the first time I
had had Pete, and the memory of those two, torrid weeks had me on the verge
of coming too soon. I reached into my shorts and squeezed the base of my
cock.

He had just unfastened his trousers. I pushed him back onto the bed. "On
your belly, Pete!" His eyes burned with lust, and he obeyed my order,
leaving me to yank off his pants. I shoved his knees up under him, parted
his ass cheeks, and licked the sensitive skin from behind his balls to his
hole.

"Mark!" he shouted hoarsely as my tongue stabbed into him.

"How long has it been, Pete? Has that blonde of yours been able to give you
this?"

"Kiska would never do this for me!" He groaned as I bit and sucked the
curve of his ass, both of us knowing I would leave bruises, neither of us
caring. I squeezed lubricant onto my fingers. He readily accepted two of
them, and I knew it wouldn't take long to prepare him.

I tore open a condom packet, smoothed on the sheath and slicked it with
more of the lube.

"Vite, mon ami, vite!" His legs were spread wide, offering me whatever I
might want to take from him.

I fitted my cock to his hole and pushed steadily into him. "Is this quickly
enough for you, Pete?" Maybe Kiska wasn't giving him this, but I didn't
doubt someone was. He had no trouble in accepting my length.

Briefly I wondered who it might be. I wasn't jealous; we were just friends
who fucked when we were in the same country and had the opportunity, which
was seldom, but that was the way it was in our business. I liked Pete,
though, and I just hoped whoever he took to his bed made him happy.

He was happy now; he moaned as I found his prostate and set up a hard, fast
rhythm at an angle that was guaranteed to have him begging me to let him
come.

"Mark, mon Dieu, cher homme! S'il vous plait!"

My lips parted in a strained grin. I knew I could make him beg. I reached
under him and took his oozing cock in my hand, smearing pre come over his
shaft as I began to jerk him off.

His compact body was shaking beneath me, and I knew without him telling me
he was about to come. I was almost there myself. All it took was one last
stroke of my hand on his dick, and the inner muscles of his hot channel
clamped down on me. My balls drew up tight to my body, and I cried out.

I kept him where he was, enjoying the snug warmth, then eased us to our
sides. Pete murmured something, but I yawned and cradled him closer to
me. I never slept well on transatlantic flights, which was why I preferred
the SSTs, and it was catching up with me now.

"Don't let me sleep too long, Pete." I yawned again, starting the slide
into a light slumber. "I'll definitely want you again!"

****

I stretched and rolled over to find myself confronted by Pete's somber
gaze. "Something wrong?"

"Je m'appelle Pierre, the last time I looked, Mark."

"Excusez-moi?" What was my friend talking about?

"When you came? You called out someone else's name." He didn't look angry,
merely meditative.

"I?uh?I did?" Please tell me I did not call for?

"Quinton, cher homme. You cried out for Quinton."

*Fuck*! I sat up, digging the heels of my hands into my eyes. "I'm sorry,
Pete. That was?that was a shitty thing to do."

"Mark, mon ami. Ecoutez. Listen. In our profession, death walks always at
our shoulders. I do not begrudge any warmth you may find."

"No, Pete. You don't understand. There's no warmth between us. Quinton Mann
is fucking CIA."

"But you are fascinated by him, non?"

"No. NO."

"No?" he echoed. "Perhaps you would care to explain this to me?" He held up
the copy of a photo Portia Mann had shown me when she'd thought I was Skip
Patterson. Her butler, Novotny, had scanned and printed it from the
original, which had 'Quinton atop Jack Be Nimble, South Hampton trials,
June 1981' written on the back in Mrs. Mann's elegant script. I'd resized
it, and scrawled on the back in my own handwriting was the same
inscription.

"You've been snooping in my wallet, de Becque? I've killed men for less!"

"Have you, mon ami?" His glance was very French and very amused. "Mark, you
are my friend, and I am concerned. You turn your back on the offer of a
perfectly good steak in order to rush me into bed, you're rougher than I
recall? Oh, I did not mind, cher homme," he hurried to assure me as I swore
and started to apologize again. "In fact, if he is the one who inspired you
to such heights, I think I will have to come to Washington, DC and see if I
can persuade him to sample my bed."

I reacted without thinking. "You go near him, de Becque, and I'll kill
you!"

"That is the second time in less than five minutes that you have threatened
me with death, Mark. Your behavior is very similar to someone who is, if I
may venture to say so without incurring a third death threat, obsessed."

"I. Am. Not. OBSESSED!" The last word was shouted, and I wanted to beat my
head against the wall. "Sorry, sorry."

Pete left the chair and sat beside me on the bed. "Cher homme," he murmured
softly. He slid his arm around my shoulder and held the picture before
me. Mann would have been about sixteen when this image was captured. He was
crouched over his horse's neck, the reins gripped tightly in his fists, his
teenage butt off the saddle as they sailed over a water jump.

I took the picture from Pete and ran my finger over that firm ass encased
in snug jodhpurs. "Oh, fuck," I groaned. "Obsessed! With a fucking CIA
spook!"

"It sounds so to me, my very dear friend. Perhaps you need to fuck
him. This has been known to satisfy the obsession."

"He's already sucked me off in the men's room of a restaurant," I said
glumly. I didn't realize I had spoken aloud until I felt Pete's shoulders
shaking in silent laughter. Ah, fucking hell! I hadn't meant to tell anyone
about that, ever.

"Vraiment?" He struggled to control his amusement. "Then it seems to me,
cher homme, that it might be time for you to repay the favor." He rose and
went to a small table that had been set up with a couple of champagne
flutes and some fruit. "I ordered room service," he said in answer to my
curious gaze. I joined him, and he handed me a glass. "Bonne chance, mon
ami."

I took a sip, then set the glass down. Champagne always made me horny. I
selected a plump, wine dark grape instead, and peeled the skin from it.

"Would you sleep with Kiska, if it would cure her of her obsession with
you?"

"Of course not, Mark. That obsession makes it easier to control her. The
Division would not be pleased if I did anything to interfere with their
plans."

I didn't care how the Division managed their personnel problems; I had
other things on my mind. "So if I fuck Quinton Mann, I won't be obsessed
with him any more." I popped the grape in my mouth and spit the seeds into
my palm. And the more I thought of shoving my dick in Mann's tight CIA ass,
the better that sounded to me.

I reached for another grape. Once I got back to DC, I'd track down the
asshole who thought he could spy on me in my own company. I'd take him out
with extreme prejudice.

And then I'd turn my attention to the Deputy Director of the CIA. I'd show
Quinton Mann how we did it in the WBIS. I'd make him beg the way I'd had
the French operative begging.

I had a thought. "Heads up!"

Pete caught the grape I tossed his way, cocked his head, and grinned. "Eh,
Mark?"

"Peel me a grape, Pete." I reached for my glass of champagne and took a
healthy swallow, watching as he peeled back the purple skin to reveal the
pale, glistening core.

Grinning even wider, he sauntered toward me, took the glass from my hand
and sipped from the same spot where I'd had my lips, then set it aside,
pushed me down into a chair and straddled my thighs, brushing the moist,
naked grape back and forth over my lips.

"Open wide, mon cher homme."

While I let him feed me the grape, I slid my hands under his ass, raised
him up, and let him settle himself on my cock.

As he slowly rose and fell, I took his mouth with mine and fed the grape to
him. His tongue pushed it back into my mouth. It wasn't quite as plump, its
taste tart, with a hint of champagne.

I turned my head and spat out the seeds. "Let's get down to business!" I
urged him to ride me harder and faster, and a fleeting thought passed
through my mind. The next time I did this, it would be to Quinton Mann, and
I'd get him out of my system once and for all.

Mann thought he could get to me? Not fucking likely!

~End~